Book 1 - James Potter and the Hall of Elders' Crossing

“I appreciate your suggestion, Miss Corsica,” McGonagall said flatly, “but this is neither the time nor
the place for discussion of the debate team calendar, as you can surely imagine. And now,” she let her gaze
sweep over the courtyard critically, “I consider the matter closed. Anyone who wishes to continue this
discussion may do so much more comfortably in the privacy of their rooms. I’d advise you to be off now,
before I send Mr. Filch out to take a census.”
The crowd began to break up. McGonagall saw James, and her expression changed. “Come along,
Potter,” she said, beckoning impatiently. James climbed the steps and followed her back into the shadow of
the Hall. McGonagall was muttering angrily, her tartan robes swishing as she stalked into a side corridor.
She seemed to expect James to follow, so he did.
“Ridiculous rabble-rousing propagandists,” she fumed, still leading James into what he recognized as
the staff offices. “James, I’m sorry you had to witness that. But I’m even sorrier that such an ugly bit of
rumor-mongering has found a foothold within these walls.”
McGonagall turned and opened a door without breaking stride. James found himself entering a large
room full of couches and chairs, small tables and bookshelves, all arranged haphazardly around an enormous
marble fireplace. And there, standing to greet him with a crooked smile was his dad. James grinned and ran
past McGonagall.
“James,” Harry Potter said delightedly, pulling the boy into a rough hug and ruffling his hair. “My
boy. I’m so glad to see you, son. How’s school?”
James shrugged, smiling happily but feeling suddenly shy. There were several other people present he
didn’t recognize, all of them looking at him as he stood with his father.
“You all know my boy, James,” Harry said, squeezing James’ shoulder. “James, these are some
representatives from the Ministry who’ve come along with me. You remember Titus Hardcastle, don’t you?
And this is Mr. Recreant and Miss Sacarhina. They both work for the Department of Ambassadorial
Relations.”
James shook hands dutifully. He did remember Titus Hardcastle when he looked at him, although
he hadn’t seen him for a long time. Hardcastle, one of his dad’s head Aurors, was squat and thick, with a
square head and very tough, weathered features. Mr. Recreant was tall and thin, dressed rather fussily in
pinstriped robes and a black derby. His handshake was quick and loose, rather like holding a dead starfish.
Miss Sacarhina, however, didn’t shake hands. She smiled hugely at James and squatted down to his level,
examining him up and down.
“I see so much of your parents in you, young man,” she said, tilting her head and affecting a
conspiratorial manner. “Such promise and potential. I do hope you’ll be joining us for the evening.”
In answer, James looked up at his dad. Harry smiled and put both hands on James’ shoulders.
“We’re having dinner tonight with the Alma Alerons. Do you want to come along? Apparently, we’re having
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